


Face the Music

by Girl_in_Red_Crossing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23412658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girl_in_Red_Crossing/pseuds/Girl_in_Red_Crossing
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier spend the night in a strange town. It doesn't go well for Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 68
Kudos: 968





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt from an anonymous user on Tumblr: Idk if uve seen joey batey’s scene in knightfall where he’s lashed to a pole with his shirt hanging off of him ... bur geralt finding jaskier like that. LISTEN i just love feral protective boyfriends ok

Every village had its oddities; every rural hamlet had its own way of making sense of life’s bullshit. While the nobles and rulers schemed and plotted, believing their dominion over their lands was absolute, villagers the world over woke up, got out of bed, and went about the daily business of feeding their families. No one at court was going to intervene when a sheep went missing or a drunken brawl went too far. Every village had its mayor, its alderman, its council of elders, and their law held far more weight than any distant noble. As long as the tax collector didn’t ask for too much grain, the villagers didn’t care to whom it went anymore than the nobles cared from whom it came.

That said, even Geralt felt a touch of unease in a town where every man, woman, and child wore the same shade of gray in the same rough wool. Every woman’s dress was identical to every other; every man’s shirt and trousers were the same. The children wore miniature versions of the adults’ clothes, and every resident had the same length hair, parted in the same way, and held back in the same ponytail. No one looked their way.

If Geralt felt uneasy, Jaskier seemed ready to crawl out of his skin. He shifted from foot to foot, half hiding behind Roach where she was hitched at the inn. His bright-red doublet stood out like a bloodstain in the snow.

“Well, this is cheery,” he said in a low voice. “And you’re absolutely sure they have a job for you and aren’t just planning to suck your soul out through your nostrils or something?”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied. “Wait here.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed. “Under the circumstances, I’d say that is a very good suggestion.”

The village was barely more than a stretch of road lined by two rows of identical buildings. Each had two floors, and the only distinction between places of business and residences were small wooden placards with helpful notices like “Smith” and “Butcher.” Geralt could clearly hear the sounds of hammers hitting anvils and smell animal pens, but the actual business of each establishment was tidily tucked away behind the building. Tall wooden fences joining lot to lot eliminated the possibility of even sneaking down an alleyway to see what lay beyond the street’s facade.

The only building with any distinctiveness stood at the end of the road, and it was only notable for being slightly larger than the others and having an iron triangle nailed to the door instead of a placard. In front of it, a woman diligently raked a neat square of bare earth the width of the road. As Geralt passed, her eyes flicked to his. She startled back at the sight of a stranger, and the tines of her rake clanged against something metal. Geralt looked down to see a hole dug in the earth the diameter of a man’s palm and several feet deep. An iron ring had been set into the opening. Geralt couldn’t guess its purpose, but that mattered little when he planned to stay no more than a night. 

By the time he reached the entrance of the larger building, a man stood waiting for him in front of the door. He was dressed the same as the other men, though he wore a silver medallion in the same triangle shape as the sign on the door. His hair was the same gray as his clothes, and he wore a beard while the other men went clean-shaven. He had the air of a scholar.

“You’re a Witcher,” the man said with serene certainty.

“Yes.”

“You’ve come about the notice I sent out.”

“Yes.”

The man inclined his head. “Then as the town alderman, I welcome you to our village. You may stay at the inn. When your work is finished, I will pay you the promised price.”

“Can you tell me anything else about the creature?” Geralt asked. “Has anyone in the village seen it?”

“I included all pertinent details in the notice. That should be sufficient for your needs.”

Without another word, he went back inside and shut the door in Geralt’s face. He’d had friendlier welcomes, but anywhere he didn’t get spat upon was acceptable in his books. As he headed back to the inn, he noted how clean the streets were, how well-fed all of the people looked. No one spoke to him, but no one stared at him either. They kept to their business, talking as they walked, even laughing quietly. No one shouted or argued; no stray dogs roamed begging for scraps. Even the children, who skipped and giggled as all children did, rarely raised their voices as they played games with small tokens or cradled gray-dressed dolls. Tall trees grew among the buildings here and there, providing shade, and the general sounds of life were quiet enough to hear the wind rustling the leaves. Odd as it was, Geralt found the village peaceful in a way, with no riotous colors or loud voices to overwhelm his enhanced senses.

Unsurprisingly, Jaskier did not share his opinion.

“I’ve had nightmares like this,” he said as he followed Roach and Geralt to the inn’s stable, practically stepping on his heels. “Exactly like this actually. Am I dreaming? Pinch me, Geralt.”

Geralt did as he was bid and gave a bit of skin at Jaskier’s neck a sharp twist. The bard yelped, clapped a hand over the spot, and glared at him, all indignation.

“You did ask,” Geralt pointed out.

The stable was well-supplied, and once Geralt was satisfied with how Roach settled in, he and Jaskier entered the inn itself. The ground-floor tavern was large and--as Geralt had come to expect in this town--clean. Instead of the mish-mash of stained and wobbly tables that populated most of the places they stayed in, the room was filled with just two long tables with simple benches along each side. Near the fireplace a few men played at cards, and a cat warmed itself on the hearth. Closer to the door, a man wrote notes in a ledger. The card players had stacked dishes at their elbows, which Geralt assumed meant the door in the back wall led to a kitchen.

There was no bar.

Geralt knew the moment Jaskier noticed this aberration by the stuttered gasp that left the man’s lips. He turned to Geralt, eyes wide, brows high, looking as if someone had just committed an unspeakable act right in front of him.

At the sound, the man with the ledger glanced up. He looked similar in age to the alderman, but his expression was far less serene as he stood and looked them over.

“Welcome,” he said in a voice that told them they were anything but. “Two rooms for you?”

“One will do,” Jaskier replied. “We aren’t staying long,” he added with a pointed look in Geralt’s direction that promised a great deal of trouble if they did not leave this town as soon as possible.

The man huffed and went to retrieve a key from a set of hooks on the wall. “First on the right,” he told them, handing the key to Geralt.

Geralt thanked him and began herding Jaskier toward the staircase when the innkeeper called to them. He pointed at the lute case in Jaskier’s hand.

“What’s that?”

Jaskier brightened, a bit of his usual cheer restored at the question. “A lute, my good man! I happen to be a bard, and if you’ll allow it, I would be happy to entertain your fine-”

“Absolutely not,” the man cut in, holding up a hand. “You’ll take that blasted thing out to the stable. I won’t have it in my inn.”

With an outraged scoff, Jaskier clutched the case to his chest. “It’s a _lute_ , not some wild animal! I can’t leave it outside overnight! Do you have any idea what that does to the tone? To the _tuning_?”

“Don’t care,” the innkeeper said. “Take it out.”

Jaskier turned his flabbergasted expression on Geralt. “This is absurd. Geralt, tell him this is absurd.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt started, but his attempt at a placating tone had the opposite effect.

“You can’t be serious!”

Geralt leaned closer, lowering his voice and gazing into his lover’s eyes. “Please, Jaskier.”

“Oh, don’t even start with that look. You can’t just-” Jaskier cut himself off with a growl, then flung his arms wide, almost hitting the innkeeper with the lute case. “You know what? Fine! _Fine_. I will take the lute outside.”

He shouldered past Geralt and stomped to the door, which he kicked open with considerably more force than necessary. The card players were openly staring with shocked expressions. Geralt offered the innkeeper a tight-lipped smile, but the man only scowled and stormed to the kitchen, muttering to himself all the while. The door slammed open again; Jaskier’s ongoing rant was at a much higher volume than the innkeeper’s had been. Rather than try to quiet him, Geralt just guided him up the stairs with a hand at the small of his back. The rant continued the whole way up and through Geralt opening the door and Jaskier flopping dramatically onto the bed.

“And gods help us if the temperature falls tonight,” he finished. “One tiny hairline crack, Geralt. That’s all it takes and the whole body is compromised.” He looked up at the ceiling with a pout. “I hate this town.”

After setting their packs in a corner, Geralt joined him and lay across the mattress. The blankets were soft and smelled only of soap, something Jaskier would have appreciated on a day his lute hadn’t suffered grave insult. Geralt reached out to tug his lover to his chest, and after a token resistance, the bard gave in. He draped himself across Geralt, who hummed his appreciation.

Jaskier huffed. “And don’t think I don’t know what you did down there with your wolf puppy eyes.”

“It’s only one night, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured into his hair.

“Gods, I bet the soup they serve is just boiled bathwater.”

“After you kicked the door, you’ll be lucky if anything you’re served doesn’t have piss in it.”

Jaskier raised his head to glare. “The man _banished_ my lute, Geralt. Who does that sort of thing to a helpless instrument?”

“The people here seem to appreciate a quieter style of life.”

“Well, they can keep it. The moment we leave town, I am going to start singing my entire repertoire at full voice.” He poked Geralt in the chest. “And you are going to have to listen to the whole thing.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “So it will be a normal day of travel with you.”

Jaskier bent down and nipped at Geralt’s jaw in retaliation. “You’re a bastard.”

“Hmm. Most likely.”

Calloused fingers gripped his chin and turned him to Jaskier’s lips for a firm kiss. 

“Did the man in charge give you any more information?” Jaskier asked when they parted. “Is it a kikimore like you thought?”

“He said the information in the notice was all he had.”

Jaskier frowned as he traced a fingertip along Geralt’s lips. “Do you think they’re hiding something?”

Geralt just shrugged, which earned him an eye roll, a put-upon sigh, and another kiss. Smoothing his hands down Jaskier’s sides to his hips got him several more, longer and deeper than the first. With a soft hum, Jaskier pulled back enough to lean his forehead against Geralt’s.

“When will you be back?”

“Depends if there’s a nest. Morning at the latest.”

Jaskier touched their noses together. “And you’ll be careful.” Even in a low voice, his tone made it clear that the statement was neither question nor request.

Geralt nodded, stealing another kiss. “And you won’t make trouble,” he replied in the same tone.

Jaskier grimaced. “If we have food in the packs, I may not even leave the room. I think you might be right about the piss soup.”

Geralt pressed his lips once more to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “All right. Let me up. I need to get ready.”

“You know,” Jaskier drawled, “I don’t think I will. I think, before you go, you need to face the consequences of not defending the other love of my life.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“Oooo, scary face. You should know by now that doesn’t work on me.”

Jaskier pushed himself up, but instead of moving off Geralt, he settled himself more firmly to straddle his hips. “Face your punishment with dignity, Geralt of Rivia,” he said as he began unbuttoning Geralt’s shirt, “and I might go easy on you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt closed his eyes as nimble fingers teased at his chest. “Don’t.”

His breath caught as Jaskier leaned down to bite at his lower lip. “My naughty love,” the bard murmured. “Whatever shall I do with you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be advised: this is where the hurt comes in.

Geralt did find a nest but only a small one. He dispatched the queen an hour before dawn, and when he passed a convenient stream, he decided to stop and wash. While he normally didn’t give a shit about dripping blood and ichor through the tidy lives of humans, the cleanliness of this town appealed to him, and he was loath to disrupt it. As a result, he reached the edge of the village just as the rising sun cleared the roof of the alderman’s building. He left his swords with Roach and then went to collect his pay.

A crowd blocked his path. Every person in the village was grouped in a loose semicircle around the earthern square. In the center, where Geralt had seen the mysterious hole the day before, a sanded-wood pole had been set in the iron ring and stood at the same height as the village’s dwellings. The villagers chatted with the same subdued tone they always displayed; the mood was neither festive nor somber. Such gatherings seemed to be a typical occurrence, a natural part of the town’s rhythm.

The crowd parted for him, letting him pass to the alderman’s door. They didn’t cringe away, simply stepped aside; a few even gave him polite nods as he passed. Instead of the alderman, a large, dark-haired man stood before the door. He wore a simple steel sword without ornamentation buckled at his waist, a soldier’s blade, the only weapon Geralt had seen in the town.

“Witcher,” the man greeted him. “Your hunt was successful?

“It was. I’ve come to collect my pay.”

The man nodded. “Of course. The alderman will be with you as soon as this morning’s business is concluded.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. It’s a simple matter.” He gestured to the gathered crowd. “If you would take a place in the square, we’ll begin shortly.”

Geralt shrugged and walked to a spot at one end of the semicircle. The woman nearest smiled at him, and the toddler she held in her arms peeked at him from over her shoulder. The sun was pleasantly warm, and he reached up a hand to comb through his hair. It had mostly dried on the way back after his wash, so he pulled the leather tie from his pocket and gathered it in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, the same style the villagers wore. The woman beside him noticed and offered him another shy smile.

The assemblage straightened and fell silent when the door to the alderman’s building opened. The man with the sword stepped forward, reaching to grab the arm of someone inside and pull them out.

Jaskier stumbled as he crossed the threshold, squinting up into the morning sunlight. His doublet was gone, his shirt slit all the way down so it hung off his shoulders. A bruise darkened the corner of his mouth that Geralt had kissed the afternoon before. Geralt rushed forward, and the man with the sword wisely released Jaskier and let him go to Geralt.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier gasped as Geralt caught him by the shoulders. His hands were bound with rope in front of him. “Geralt, I have _no_ idea what’s going on. I didn’t _do_ anything. I didn’t even leave our room!”

The alderman stepped out onto the square, and Geralt pushed Jaskier behind him. 

“Alderman,” Geralt demanded, “why was my companion taken from the inn?”

“He has broken one of our laws, Witcher,” the alderman said in his calm voice, “and so must face the punishment.”

“What law?” Jaskier spat from behind Geralt. “I’ve broken no law!”

The alderman turned his serene gaze on Jaskier. “Singing is a corruption of the holiness of the spoken word.”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder to Jaskier, who stood open-mouthed and gaping. 

“That’s… what…” The bard seemed lost for words for a moment, then his face twisted with anger. “First of all, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been to _court_ so that’s saying something. Second of all, the only singing I did all evening was in the privacy of the room we rented. No one else was even there!”

“But we heard you.” Geralt whipped his head toward the voice in the crowd, and the innkeeper stepped forward with a nasty sneer. “Your voice infested the whole building. My wife, my children were subjected to your demonic chanting.”

“You son of a bitch!” Jaskier snarled. He hurled himself toward the man, and Geralt had to catch him by the shirt and restrain the bard against his chest. He could feel Jaskier trembling in his arms.

“Alderman,” Geralt said, “you must realize your law is an unusual one. We’re strangers to this town. He couldn’t have known.”

The alderman inclined his head. “I have taken this into consideration and reduced the sentence accordingly.”

Jaskier’s breaths came short and quick, and Geralt rubbed his thumb in soothing circles on his arm. “What is the sentence?” Geralt asked.

“Ten lashes.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier whimpered, turning his face to hide against Geralt’s neck. “Geralt.”

“And what is the reduced sentence?” Geralt’s own chest felt tight; a creeping sense of dread squeezed like a fist gripping his spine.

“That is the reduced sentence,” the alderman replied. “A resident of this village would lose a finger for such a transgression.”

Gasping, Jaskier pressed his face more firmly against Geralt’s skin, and he felt moisture gather there. He couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. His eyes darted around the square, seeking some escape, some way out of the closing trap. Some of the villagers avoided his gaze, but most looked back with blank, even bored expressions. One man glanced up at the sun’s position and sighed; his hand tapped impatiently against his thigh.

Geralt looked back to the alderman. “I will take the punishment for him.”

Jaskier’s head jerked up, almost hitting Geralt in the chin. “What? No!”

The alderman shook his head. “That would not be just. We do not punish the innocent here, Witcher.”

A strangled laugh escaped Jaskier’s lips.

“I will forfeit my pay,” Geralt offered.

The alderman held up his hand. “There will be no more discussion. Marren, if you would.” He gestured to the man with the sword and then turned to walk back into the building they’d come from.

“Coward!” Jaskier called after him, and Geralt had to hold him back again. “You won’t even watch your own judgment meted out!”

Geralt’s eyes were trained on the swordsman. His heart thundered in his chest, pumping adrenaline through his veins; his muscles tensed, braced for a fight. The man had a hand on the hilt of his weapon, but he held the other up as he approached. With bared teeth, Geralt turned his body to shield Jaskier from him.

“I have no wish to fight you,” the swordsman said in a quiet voice. “But I will if I must. As will everyone in this village. We have all sworn oaths to uphold the laws of this place. Will you fight us all, Witcher?”

Geralt’s head jerked back to the crowd. There had to be a path, a way through. But even as he looked, the villagers seemed to tighten their ranks. One man with the thick build of a blacksmith took a step forward. Jaskier’s heavy breaths were loud in his ears against the villagers’ silence, and for a moment, Geralt’s mind’s eye twisted the scene before him, overlaying the people before him with the snarling masses of Blaviken.

Gentle hands to his face brought him back. Jaskier smiled up at him, soft and sad beneath his red-rimmed eyes. “It’s all right,” he murmured.

Panic closed Geralt’s throat. He couldn’t speak, could barely breathe beneath his growing fear and rage. His fingers tightened on Jaskier’s arms, his grip turning desperate, as though Jaskier hung suspended from a great height and only Geralt could halt his fall.

Blue eyes stayed trained on his, holding his gaze, holding him together. With slow, careful steps, Jaskier began to move backward, forcing Geralt to step with him, as if leading him in a dance. Their feet shuffled along the bare ground beneath, the earth as yet unstained with blood. Jaskier’s breathing was quiet now, save for the small gasp he let out when his back hit the pole. Geralt crowded him close against it, pressing their foreheads together so he could see, could feel nothing but Jaskier. They shared their small pocket of air, an intimate moment that should have been a prelude to tenderness and not bloodshed.

“Step back, Witcher.”

Geralt whirled to growl at the alderman who now stood a few paces behind them with a whip in his hand, but Jaskier pushed his bound hands against Geralt’s chest.

“Go, Geralt,” he murmured. “I just want it done.”

Unbalanced, on edge, Geralt stumbled back with Jaskier’s light shove. Jaskier made to turn his back, to place his bound hands on the pole, but the swordsman stepped toward him, placed a hand on his elbow, and gently turned him to face forward again. Jaskier’s eyes went wide, and he swallowed with a visible bob of his throat, but he did not resist as the swordsman loosened his ropes and then bound his arms behind the pole.

“On your knees,” the man instructed, sounding like a parent guiding a child in prayer. “So you won’t fall and hurt yourself.”

Jaskier let out a choked sound but lowered himself to kneel at the base of the pole. The swordsman moved to take Geralt’s arm, to pull him out of the way, and Geralt slammed him back with hands to his chest. The man staggered but didn’t fall, and in another moment, the blacksmith was behind Geralt, grabbing his arms and pinning them behind his back. Geralt threw his head back to crack against the blacksmith’s face. The smith let out a shout, but his hold didn’t loosen. The swordsman in front of Geralt drew his blade.

“Stop!” Jaskier shouted. “Fuck! Geralt, just stop!”

When Geralt turned to look at him, he knew he must look as desperate as he felt because despite everything, despite being tied to a pole like a fucking animal, Jaskier smiled at him.

“It’s all right, love,” he said. “It’ll be over soon.”

The blacksmith yanked Geralt back, and he stumbled on clumsy legs as he was dragged to stand with the crowd. His eyes never left Jaskier’s face.

The alderman stepped forward, letting the whip uncoil at his feet. Jaskier faced him, chin high and a sneer on his lips.

“Go on then,” he snapped.

The alderman nodded, then twisted the hand holding the whip. “As you can see, I not only watch the punishment; I mete it out myself, as is my honor and my duty as alderman. We face each other as men, eye to eye, as the gods intended.”

A tear slipped down Jaskier’s cheek to drop off his chin and fall to the dirt. “You sick fuck.”

The alderman didn’t reply. He raised his arm, swung his hand back, and cracked the whip forward. The blow fell near Jaskier’s right shoulder, and he jerked and whipped his head to the side in an attempt to shield his face. More tears fell as he squeezed his eyes shut.

The second blow fell beneath his other shoulder, and he flung his head the other way. Twin gashes oozed blood down his chest.

The third hit above his heart, and when he gasped a sob and bit down on his lip, Geralt dragged the blacksmith forward until they both nearly fell in the dirt.

When the fourth blow sliced through Jaskier’s nipple, he screamed. Geralt lunged forward, and the blacksmith tackled him to the ground. The swordsman stepped in front of him to block his view of Jaskier. When Geralt struggled to throw the blacksmith off, the man lowered his weapon to rest the tip at Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier screamed again, but Geralt couldn’t see where the blow landed.

“You’re doing well,” the alderman said. “You’re half finished already.”

“You-” Jaskier began in a rough voice, but the word rose to a shout when another blow cracked across his body.

Geralt lowered his face to the ground, as if he could burrow beneath the dry dirt and escape the sound of his lover’s cries. The screams were a terrible clock counting down to their release from this nightmare. When the clock finally struck zero, Geralt roared and surged upward, throwing the heavy blacksmith off him with the sheer force of his fury. The swordsman backed away from him as he staggered to his feet, but Geralt paid him no heed. He marched straight to the alderman and ripped the whip from his hand. 

“Leave us be!” he shouted in the man’s face. He turned to the crowd and cracked the whip against the ground. They drew back with shocked gasps. “ _Leave us be!_ ” he roared.

He raised the whip again, and the villagers scattered, grabbing their children by the hand and pulling them back to the safety of their houses. Only the alderman, the blacksmith, and the man with the sword remained. Geralt hurled the handle of the whip at the door of the alderman’s building, and the iron triangle fell and hit the ground with a heavy clang.

Then he stumbled over to Jaskier, falling to his knees. The bard hung limp, head down and dripping drool and tears. His chest and and torso were a mess of blood and matted hair. Geralt cradled his jaw in his palms and gently tilted his face up. Jaskier’s eyes overflowed when they met Geralt’s, and he let out a soft sob. A thin line of blood trickled from the lip he’d bitten, and Geralt rubbed it away with his thumb.

A coin purse dropped to the dirt beside them, and Geralt snarled up at the alderman.

“Your pay, Witcher,” the man said.

“Fuck you,” Geralt spat.

The man pressed his lips together; it was the first hint of feeling Geralt had seen from the man. “Your business in our village is concluded. Go in peace.”

He turned and strode back to the building behind them; the man with the sword followed. The blacksmith went the other direction, down the village street to his forge.

Geralt guided Jaskier to lay his head against his shoulder, so he could reach the ropes binding the bard to the pole. When his hands were freed, Jaskier clutched at Geralt’s shirt and raised his face, which held a desperate look.

“Take me to Roach.”

Geralt smoothed a lock of sweat-soaked hair back from his brow. “I need to treat your wounds.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I want to leave. I want out of this place. Even if it’s just a few miles down the road.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Please, Geralt. Don’t make me stay here.”

An animal whine of pain tried to claw its way out of Geralt’s chest, but he swallowed it down. He nodded, and Jaskier sagged into his grasp. Geralt’s eyes fell to the coin purse, and he was tempted to throw it at the alderman’s door as well. Instead he reached out and tucked it into his pocket, promising himself he would spend every coin on Jaskier.

Then he wrapped his arm around the bard’s waist, helped him get to his feet, and started a slow trudge back to the inn’s stable.


	3. Chapter 3

They rode from the village in near silence. Soft, gasping breaths and cut-off whimpers, barely audible over the creaking of the saddle, replaced Jaskier’s usual chattering. He kept one hand braced on the saddle horn; the other held the ruins of his shirt to the bleeding gashes on his chest and torso. He hunched forward, curling away from Geralt, but when Geralt had shifted back, trying to give him a bit of space, he’d let out a louder whimper and shook his head. So Geralt kept as close as he could without hurting the bard, holding the reins low so his hands rested on Jaskier’s thighs instead of his waist.

After ten minutes, he started to steer Roach into a clearing just off the road, but Jaskier let go of the horn to clutch at one of his hands.

“Not yet.”

“Jaskier…”

“Please. Just a little farther.”

They rode on. Jaskier curled more and more until his hair brushed Roach’s mane. His whimpers became half-sobs through clenched teeth. The adrenaline that had carried him this far was wearing thin, and Geralt scanned the dense roadside trees desperately for a safe haven, some quiet place where they could rest and where Geralt could tend Jaskier’s wounds. Finally he caught a promising glimpse of sunlight glinting off water. He turned Roach immediately, and this time Jaskier did not protest.

The clearing more than fulfilled Geralt’s hopes. The water was a stream, clean and quick-moving, its burbling a soft song as it tumbled over its rocky bed. Sunbeams cut through the forest canopy, thick and warm. And the green grass was speckled throughout with wildflowers in a hundred shades of yellow, pink, and blue. It seemed a riot of color after the gray-soaked village they’d left.

Geralt’s squeezed Jaskier’s thigh. “Jaskier,” he murmured, “look.”

His lover raised his tear-soaked face. Another gasp left him, but Geralt knew it wasn’t of pain. When Jaskier turned in the saddle, he winced, but his lips curved in a small smile as he met Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt dismounted, but when Jaskier took a deep breath, bracing himself to do the same, he held out a hand and shook his head. Jaskier frowned, but he sagged in understanding as he watched Geralt untie a bedroll from the saddle. Geralt took it across the clearing, near to the water, positioning it carefully so the sun would be off Jaskier’s face but would keep his body warm. When he returned to Roach, Jaskier had already swung his leg over her neck so he sat side-saddle, breathing heavily with the effort. A fresh crop of tears trailed down from his closed eyes.

While he was distracted by gathering himself, Geralt hurried to tuck one arm under Jaskier’s knees and reached up with the other to cup his shoulder. With one swift, sudden movement, he pulled Jaskier into his arms and against his chest. Jaskier cried out once, but then the moment had passed, the pain sharp but mercifully quick.

“Bastard,” Jaskier muttered, but Geralt could feel the barest hint of a kiss where Jaskier’s face was pressed into his shoulder.

In contrast, Geralt knelt and eased Jaskier down on the bedroll as slowly and gingerly as possible. Jaskier’s breath came heavy but slow in a pattern Geralt recognized from the bard’s vocal warmups before a performance. When he finally lay flat, with Geralt smoothing his hair back from his sweaty forehead, tension melted out of his body, and he smiled up at the Witcher.

“My hero,” he sighed.

Geralt snatched his hand back and pushed to his feet. He stalked to Roach to gather fresh linen and their cooking pot, which he carried to the stream and filled to the brim with cool water. Without meeting Jaskier’s eyes, he dropped beside him again, dipped the linen in water, and began wiping the sweat and tears from Jaskier’s face with careful strokes. Jaskier let him work in silence for several minutes, though Geralt could feel the weight of blue eyes on his skin. When he sat back and moved to stand again, Jaskier grabbed his hand.

“Geralt…”

As gently as he could, Geralt pulled his hand back. They needed a fire. _Jaskier_ needed a fire. Water from the stream was fine for a quick cleanup, but Geralt didn’t want to touch the gashes on his chest with anything that hadn’t been thoroughly boiled. He hadn’t been able to protect Jaskier from getting the wounds, but he’d be damned if he let the bard suffer the misery and danger of infection.

He prowled the edges of the clearing, gathering up what stones he could find and carrying them to a spot the right distance from Jaskier so he would be warm but not hot. After the stones were arranged in a loose circle, he bent to the task of clearing the grass within, ripping and tearing and clawing until the space was nothing but bare dirt.

Like the square in the village had been.

Grimacing, he tore his hands free of the soil and stalked to the trees. He seized any thick, dry branches he could find, snapping them down to manageable pieces with his bare hands. An armload to the circle, a quick flash of Igni, and he could set the cooking pot close to the growing flames. He stood watching the wood begin to catch, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, his mind carefully blank.

A harsh inhale from the bedroll jolted his attention back. Jaskier was plucking at the shirt he’d held to his wounds, now sticky and caked with dried blood. Geralt was kneeling at his side in a moment and grabbed Jaskier’s hand with his own.

“Wait for the water.”

Jaskier looked up at him with a faint smirk and tightened the grip of their fingers. “I thought that might get you over here.”

Geralt looked away, shifted to stand, but Jaskier held firm, too firm for Geralt to pull away without jostling Jaskier’s wounds, and Geralt refused to cause his lover any further pain. When he didn’t look back, Jaskier tugged to get his attention.

“You might as well get comfortable,” he said when Geralt reluctantly faced him. “Because I’m going to speak now, and you’re going to listen.”

As when Jaskier had led him to the whipping pole, Geralt was helpless to resist. He shifted again, but this time he settled to sit at Jaskier’s side. He cradled their joined hands in his lap and bent his head, narrowing his focus to the drag of his thumb against a lute-forged callus. Normally the movement would have allowed his face some cover from his hair, but it was all still tied back at his nape, a sick imitation of a sick community.

“Geralt, please look at me.”

Dragging his gaze up to meet his lover’s eyes ranked among the harder moments of Geralt’s long life. The morning they’d endured had already claimed a place very near the top of that list.

Jaskier’s face was clean; his voice was clear. Bright-as-ever blue eyes regarded Geralt with a tender mix of love and deep understanding.

“None of what happened today-- _none of it_ \--was your fault.”

Instead of water to douse the shame and guilt burning in Geralt’s chest, the words acted as kerosene. He flinched in sudden pain, then felt scorched all the more for daring to call it pain after what Jaskier had suffered. Apologies rose like smoke to his lips.

“Stop,” Jaskier chided softly before he could speak. “Darling, I love you, but I am telling you right now that your guilt will do absolutely nothing to ease my pain. It will only increase it.” Geralt felt the bard’s thumb caress his skin in turn. “One of us was already unfairly wounded today. Don’t let them hurt us both.”

Geralt forced himself to face the truth in Jaskier’s eyes. After a long moment, he nodded slowly. Even if Jaskier was wrong, even if Geralt deserved the guilt, he would set it aside to lessen his lover’s hurt.

He would do anything to lessen his lover’s hurt.

Jaskier squeezed his hand. Then he smiled a fraction of his normal grin but still sincere. “Good. Now that that’s settled, I insist you pamper me properly.”

Geralt glanced at the bubbling cooking pot. He reached for the handle with his free hand and brought it to the ground before him to cool. “It will hurt.”

Jaskier grimaced. “All right. I know. I’ll just have to settle for you treating my wounds for now, but we are traveling from here to a decent city with decent people and a decent fucking inn.”

Geralt nodded again, bringing Jaskier’s knuckles to his lips. When he moved to stand this time, Jaskier let him go. He went to Roach and the saddlebags and collected more linen and salves and the tiny bottle of milk of poppy that they kept for emergencies. Before he returned to Jaskier, Geralt allowed himself a moment to lean against Roach, closing his eyes and breathing in her familiar, comfortable scent. His Witcher training had taught him how to distance himself from his emotions, and he called on it now. He would let nothing distract him from Jaskier’s needs.

He brought the supplies back to Jaskier and gently pressed his fingers to the bard’s throat. His pulse was strong and steady, so he held up the milk of poppy.

Jaskier nodded. “Just a drop.” He opened his mouth, and Geralt placed a careful drop on his tongue.

Next he soaked the strips of linen and his own hands in the cooking pot. The water was still hot but no longer painfully so. He separated one strip from the others and folded it into a loose square suitable for cleaning.

“Tell me if the pain is too much,” he murmured.

“I absolutely will,” Jaskier said.

As carefully as he was able, Geralt began to dab at the gashes left by the whip. The first touch made Jaskier squirm, but he grit his teeth and breathed through his nose.

“All right?” Geralt asked.

“It’s fine. Just… no harder than that please.”

With a precision born from decades of treating his own wounds, Geralt kept the press of the cloth even and light. When he came to a spot where dried blood adhered to what was left of Jaskier’s shirt, he let the warmth and wetness of the cloth soak in before he pried it free with a delicate touch. Even so, a few of the wounds reopened, and thin trickles of blood meandered down Jaskier’s sides. At first Jaskier hissed and wriggled, but as the poppy took effect, he relaxed into the bedroll.

Geralt continued to watch his face for signs of pain, but aside from the occasional crease in his brow, he looked peaceful. His half-lidded eyes blinked slowly at Geralt, and the trusting affection in them loosened the Witcher’s tension as well. A whim came to him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he gave into it.

Jaskier’s eyes widened when he began to hum one of Jaskier’s own songs. His lips turned up, and a soft huff of laughter escaped him.

“I knew you liked that one,” he mumbled.

“I don’t do it justice.”

Jaskier’s eyes fell closed. “You sound wonderful.”

The poppy deserved more credit for that review than Geralt’s voice, but he took up the song again as he worked. Jaskier remained lax and quiet as he finished cleaning the wounds. With the lightest brushes of his fingertips, Geralt spread the healing salve across the gashes and the ugly lines of bruising that surrounded the cut skin. By the time he was done, all of Jaskier’s chest hair had been slicked flat.

After Geralt prepared the bandages, he reluctantly shook Jaskier awake. Jaskier wrinkled his nose as he did when they had an early morning of travel, but he went willingly when Geralt guided his arms to loop around Geralt’s neck. Jaskier leaned his head into Geralt’s shoulder as he wrapped and tied the bandages and then hummed happily when Geralt shifted to sit behind him so he could lay his head in Geralt’s lap. He nuzzled his cheek into Geralt’s thigh and began softly snoring almost at once.

Geralt would wake him in a few hours. They’d eat some food and break their camp and then ride on, hopefully to a village so Jaskier could spend a few nights in a soft bed to recover. But for this moment, Geralt was content to run his fingers through soft hair and hum the sweet music the bard had brought into his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I am shy about responding to comments, but I am so grateful for each and every one.
> 
> You can also catch me on Tumblr at girl-in-red-crossing if you are so inclined.


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